Entropy
by anaplasia
Summary: She's Molly Hooper and utterly forgettable and not important in the slightest, and yet someone (might) love her.


Entropy: lack of order or predictability; gradual decline into disorder.

* * *

She walks out of the office far too fast, and she supposes that's why she bumps into him. Her bag and purse fly out of her hands (contents scattering all over the floor) and seconds later a dark-haired, pale man is beside her picking up keys and soiled five-pound notes and a tube of lipstick which she should have thrown away a long time ago.

"Sorry," he apologises, and he looks up at her (with some apprehension, she thinks).

"Don't worry," she tells him. "It was my fault, anyway. Walking fast down corridors isn't exactly advisable."

He laughs, at that, and she thinks it sounds a little hysterical. The laugh of a brilliant madman. "Jim Halley. I work upstairs – I.T."

"My name's Molly Hooper," she informs him, and she pauses her fumbling with some coffee-stained receipts in order to lean forward and shake his hand. "Good to meet you."

"Likewise," he grins.

The two of them repack her bag (more or less successfully) and as she does so, she watches him. Notices how his hands are unlike the rest of him, how they're fine-boned (pretty) and have a curious lack of calluses considering that he's supposed to work in I.T. How his hair is slightly mussed, as though his nights have been restless recently. How there's something wrong with him that she can't quite place. What a fool she is for seeing all these things.

Then suddenly they're finished and he's standing up (rather ungracefully) and muttering something which she thinks might be about needing to go to a meeting and she is left ignoring the sudden temperature drop in the room when he moves away from her.

He's nearly at the door when she notices something.

"Jim," she calls after him. "Wait!"

He stops and turns around, and she takes the opportunity to catch up with him. "You forgot your I.T. badge," she informs him as she passes it over.

"So I did." He gives an uneasy grin and starts to walk again. He's almost at the end of the corridor when he looks back and enquires (with surprising gentleness), "So I guess I'll be seeing you round?"

"Yeah," she says absently. "I'll see you around."

(It feels almost like a beginning).

* * *

The second time she sees him, she's out shopping. It's exactly twelve o'clock on a Saturday, and she's taken the long way through the park because she doesn't like the way the streets are so crowded. (Her life is filled with strange little patterns, things that she doesn't change simply because she wouldn't be able to imagine them otherwise, and because the idea of change scares her).

He smiles at her from the end of the aisle, and she grins and waves back, nearly tripping over her own feet as she walks over to join him.

"Molly!" he exclaims, by way of greeting.

As though it's an unspoken agreement, she allows him to take her basket. Even though she's Molly Hooper, and never lets anyone help her (but hey, who said it was wrong to make exceptions?)

She finds that shopping – with him, anyway - isn't such a trial. They talk – trivial things, the weather, her favourite food (she likes cranberries best, they're sour but so _pretty _that she doesn't really mind eating them at all) and she thinks that she feels good, like this. Safe, almost, even though she's only known him for a quarter of an hour and has next to no information on who he is.

He touches her elbow, once, and the sensation makes her heart leap.

They pay, cursing the chip-and-pin machine good-naturedly, and walk out of the store together. Their steps fall in perfect synchronisation, she notes distractedly, just like true blue BFFs. She tries to break the pattern and finds that she can't.

They stop at the corner of the street, and he turns to her to wave goodbye. She smiles shyly, and before she can comprehend what's happening she's leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips tingle a little, and she thinks to herself, _stupid, stupid, why did you do that?_

She doesn't expect him to return the kiss, but he does anyway. (And _God_, is that a smile on his face?)

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper," he says, in a way that doesn't sound at all offended. (Actually, she thinks that he sounds rather pleased – but she can't tell whether it's with himself or her).

But there is no air of finality to it, no indication that this will be the last time that they see each other. It doesn't sound like that in the slightest.

* * *

She blushes and smiles her way through the rest of the day, ignoring the curious looks she gets from strangers and the teasing she gets from her friends (_who is it, Molly?_)

* * *

It's the week after when she realises she might be a (little) bit in love with him.

* * *

They meet for the third time in the morgue. She isn't expecting him. She just looks up, giving her eyes a break from some unfortunate soul who drowned in his own bathtub, and sees him smiling at her.

"I prefer space," he says, like it isn't completely random and there's nothing wrong with the fact that he must have been watching her for quite some time. "I'm not really one for people. Not even their corpses."

She laughs. (She can cover her surprise well enough if she wants to). "Really? You seem friendly enough."

"No," he says sarcastically. "I'm secretly a criminal mastermind." She giggles at that, and even though she knows she shouldn't, there is something about him which makes her want to laugh. "I tolerate most people, but they generally don't…interest me. I mean, sometimes I make exceptions, but mostly they aren't particularly likeable –" he trails off, staring absently into the blank eyes of the corpse. "Guess that makes me the villain in this fairytale, then."

"No," Molly stops laughing. Instantly, the room's light-hearted atmosphere dissipates, replaced with something more sobering.

"You're a good person, Jim," she informs him. "Probably you don't think that. Others might not, either. But I know – for certain – that you have a heart. People with hearts can never be completely evil. And, for what it's worth, I believe in you."

He is quiet for a moment before he speaks again, sapping up the silence. "Thank you."

She can sense that he is uncomfortable, and so she quickly changes the subject. "D'you want to come around to my house tonight?" she asks. "Glee's on. We could watch it."

He seems grateful, and smiles. "That would be awesome."

* * *

As it turns out, Glee doesn't quite work out for the both of them.

They are sitting on the couch, and he is giving a running commentary about the apparent lack of continuity on this show, and she is watching him as he talks. Noting the patterns his hands move in. Observing the way his eyes light up dangerously when he glares at the television.

She isn't quite sure what possesses her to lean forward and brush her lips against his. (Spur of the moment, the way she's felt for a long time, none of it really matters). His mouth is slightly chapped and colder than she'd expected, but all the same he's _Jim_ and she isn't exactly going to say no him simply because she _can't_.

She is vaguely aware of him kissing her back, their tongues meeting, and suddenly all she knows is his mouth on hers and too much heat and some ancient, primal instinct awakening inside her.

From there, it all goes to hell.

* * *

They spend the night in her room, bodies entwined. She is beside him, almost asleep but not quite, not just yet. He presses his lips to the pink shell of her ear.

"I would honour you, you know," he mutters. "So perfect."

The meaning of it escapes her completely (what does it mean, to honour her?) but she feels too content and sleepy to really care.

She pretends not to hear him.

* * *

"We should do that again, sometime," he smiles as he leaves out the front door in the morning, and she grins back and nods and waves him all the way down the road (because the lines between love and madness are all too fine).

* * *

When they next cross paths it's at work, two days after. He takes her hand and walks her out of the morgue and into the tiny café at the end of the street, chattering all the way about how busy he's been experimenting with some tricky new software and how sorry he is that he hasn't managed to spend more time with her and how these past few days have been far too boring.

"Seems like you have a lot on your mind, Molly Hooper," he teases, and links his arm through hers. "What have you been up to?"

"Been helping a friend of mine with an investigation," she replies. It's unfortunate, because her own answer makes her wince. To Sherlock Holmes, she is nothing: little better than a servant and certainly not someone who he'd consider a friend (but she's pretty sure that he doesn't have any friends anyway).

"Oh, really?" he asks playfully. "Who?"

"His name's Sherlock Holmes. He's, like, a sort of detective. He solves crimes," she adds, as though she thinks he doesn't understand what the word "detective" means. She takes a deep breath. "I can introduce him to you, if you'd like," she says as she leans across the café table.

His response is to smile and nod eagerly. Soon they're finished and standing up, almost forgetting to pay as they join hands and walk out of the café.

They've arrived at Bart's before they've even realised it. Molly looks at the door (which she's always found impossibly large), feels apprehension building in her stomach, and wonders if this was a good idea.

Jim, however, seems unperturbed. "So, then," he smiles. "You going to show me this guy?"

* * *

It's then that it all falls apart, and it does so as quickly as it began. (She should have known, really, that introducing him to the bloody genius wouldn't go down well).

She enters the room, walks over to the beeping machine (peering with interest at the results, she's always found this type of thing more interesting than corpses) and tries not to panic. He follows behind, his bashful grin falling short as he catches sight of the equipment that's been set up. Probably thinks he's interrupting something. "Oh, sorry, I-"

She cuts him off before he can finish. "Jim! Come over!"

She glances over at the man by the machine - who, as usual, ignores her. "Jim," she says, "This is Sherlock Holmes."

He turns to the detective. "So, you're Sherlock Holmes?" he enquires, a little breathlessly.

Sherlock, of course, just _has _to ignore him, and she takes it upon herself to fill the silence that ensues. "Jim works in I.T., upstairs. That's how we met."

She thinks that it feels good to tell someone about him. People shouldn't keep happiness to themselves, should they? And she laughs, then, because she finally realises the absurdity of it all. She's Molly Hooper and utterly forgettable and not important in the slightest, and yet someone (might) love her.

Might.

It's then that Sherlock decides to bring her world crashing down.

It only takes one word, and that's what frightens her the most. _Gay_. Jim doesn't seem to pay any attention to it. Lets it wash over him like water. She knows better than to do that, however, and she almost wishes she doesn't. (Sherlock is never wrong – very rarely, anyway).

She does a good job, she thinks, of hiding the surprise and the hurt and the pain, choosing instead to glare at Sherlock (_not here, not now_). "Sorry, what?"

Unfortunately (fortunately) Jim ends up knocking a dish to the floor before anything else happens. He stutters as he picks it up, and she feels sorry for him. And she wonders just what state of mind she was in when she offered to introduce him to Sherlock.

She doesn't notice he's asking her something until she looks up. Finds him staring at her. She replies with a "Yeah" (it's always the safest option).

"Bye," he says, but he's addressing Sherlock, not her (and she can't help but admit she's a little hurt by that).

He looks over to Sherlock once more. "It was nice to meet you."

The silence in the room is deafening, and when John Watson intervenes with, "You, too," she shoots the guy a grateful look.

(And she thinks, for one tiny, single millisecond, that a look of cunning passes across Jim's face. But no. That can't be).

He leaves quietly, closing the door behind him.

* * *

"What do you mean, gay? We're together, he's not – "

She stares around the room, a trifle desperately. Sherlock is barely glancing at her. God_, _he's even acting like he's just done her a service. John Watson seems embarrassed (a little angry, even) but he makes no move to deny Sherlock's words.

And suddenly, all she wants to do is scream. To tell Sherlock to stop announcing his deductions like they're some sort of sick achievement. To sort out his dubious morals. To piss the hell off and allow her to experience some happiness, just this once. To stop being _right _all the goddamn time.

She bolts out of the room and has a panic attack in the toilets.

He finds her two hours later, in the morgue. Her eyes are red from crying and her mascara has run down her cheeks in black smears (and she hopes that nobody else is around to see her like this).

"Molly?" he asks tentatively. "What – what happened? What's wrong?"

"Jim, if you're gay, it's fine," she says. But it really isn't, because if he's gay she can't have him. (Not the way she wants to, anyway).

"I – I'm not-" Confusion and hurt flash across his gaze, and she can't look at him. She can't.

He turns away to place a hand on the wall, and she doesn't have to see his face to know that his eyes have lit up dangerously. "Molly, we – did Sherlock tell you that? About my being gay, I mean?"

She sniffs. "Yes. And he – he's never wrong, okay? I just-"

"Sherlock Holmes is a complacent, foolish idiot!" His eyes are very bright, now, and dangerous, and she's backing away fast. "He has no heart. What can he pick up about my feelings for you? He'll use you, you know, if I-" his gaze lowers to the floor. "I'm so sorry."

"You gave him your number," she whispers, and she can practically sense the broken promises hanging heavy in the air.

He seems to deflate, at that. "I…"

"I can't do this, Jim," she whispers.

His expression melts, a little, and she thinks that for just a moment he looks genuinely sorry. "No. Of course not. It could never have worked, really," he says, and she nods and forces a smile (and pretends he hasn't hurt her with that statement).

"Bye, Jim," she manages to get out, and tears threaten to cloud over her vision again.

"Goodbye, Molly." He says the words abruptly.

They end as they began, really. (Him apologising and stuttering, and her thinking that this wasn't meant to be).

* * *

She finds that he is continually on her mind over the course of the next few weeks (and it scares her, a little, because breakups have never affected her this badly before ).

She thinks she can sense a presence beside her, sometimes, when she's walking down a particularly crowded street . Some days she feels as though there are eyes watching her from behind a corner. She doesn't mind, really, because she has the strangest notion that it's _him_.

She wonders if she's slowly going insane.

* * *

They tell her, a few months later, that he was – is – a criminal.

She's shocked, of course. It's not often that she dates anyone, much less men who have the power to blow up continents. (A small part of her, though, isn't surprised at all. Because there always was something strange about Jim, something that was very dangerous and kind of beautiful, and it's always the brightest stars that go supernova).

* * *

She moves on, because she's Molly Hooper and moving on is what she does. There are others – there will always be others.

But in the private recesses of her mind he's there, and the memory of his face leaves a hole in her heart that she never quite manages to fill.


End file.
